


The Café

by xslytherclawx



Series: YOI AU Week 2017 [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Berlin (City), Fluff, Jewish Character, M/M, Russian Mafia, YOI AU Week, don't let that fool you this is all fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-25 18:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xslytherclawx/pseuds/xslytherclawx
Summary: The fact that Otabek was almost certain that the Russian café-grocery he frequented was a front for the mafia should have deterred him. But the hot guy behind the counter kept bringing him back.(For YOI AU Week, Day Six: Mafia)





	The Café

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wasn't going to do this prompt because mafia AUs are generally not my thing, but then I started talking to some friends about probable mafia fronts we've seen and I remembered that café in Berlin that I, too, would go to at random hours because they were always open and the food was super cheap. And then I remembered _Im Angesicht des Verbrechens_ which is about a police officer whose entire family is in the Russian mafia in Berlin. and... this happened.
> 
> Yuri was still a figure skater, but Otabek never was, so they never met before this.

Berlin had a fucking fantastic club scene. That was a given. Otabek had known that years before moving. What he hadn’t realised, however, were how many  _ Russians _ there were, especially around Charlottenburg (which, he’d learned, was also called  _ Charlottgorod _ by the Russians who lived there). Sure, he wasn’t Russian himself, but there was something oddly comforting in going to the Russian groceries and cafés.

His favorite café, by nature of its central location (right by an S-Bahn line he used daily) and its really cheap food, was somewhere where he could speak Russian with ease. He knew, of course, that the café owners and operators could tell that he was Kazakh (or, well, they might just have thought that he was Kyrgyz, but either way, he was clearly not ethnically Russian), but they didn’t seem to mind.

It was only after he’d lived in Berlin for months that he’d realised something strange: he was never charged what he owed. If something was six euros and fifty cents, they charged him six euros even. At first, he thought maybe they knew him and liked him, but then he watched a non-Russian speaker struggle through a transaction, looking awkward and uncomfortable, and he was charged a full two euros less than he should have been.

It was strange; a comic side note, but then his roommate made him watch this heavy-handed drama about the Russian mafia in Berlin, and he was fucking convinced that this grocery and café he frequented was a front. After all, the location was prime, and why else would they patently disregard profit?

Which was a shame, because the one guy behind the counter had been  _ really _ cute.

He still went back, and wondered why he did. Surely it was immoral, if it were a front for the Russian mafia. The food wasn’t even that great; half of it, he was sure, was frozen. The only fresh things seemed to be the baked goods.

The guy behind the counter definitely wasn’t part of why he kept coming back, despite becoming more and more sure that this was a front for the mafia. Otabek never  _ thought _ about him like that. He certainly never fantasised about him. Absolutely not.

So when he found himself alone at the café at two in the morning while he worked on a mix, he didn’t really think it was anything out of the ordinary. Until, that is, the guy who was normally behind the counter walked into the café and plopped himself down in the seat across from Otabek.

“Hey, asshole,” the guy said, waving his hand in front of Otabek’s face.

Otabek, who had stopped  _ actually _ mixing when he’d saw the guy approaching, took off his headphones so that they hung around his neck. “I’m sorry, are you closing?”

The guy rolled his eyes. He looked to be around Otabek’s age – early twenties, definitely, maybe late teens. “This is a fucking twenty-four hour café. Can’t you read?”

“You must have come over here for something,” Otabek said. His roommate Maxi’s face after they’d finished the third episode of  _ Im Angesicht des Verbrechens _ popped into his mind.  _ How crazy would it be if that café you’re always at is a front for the Russian mafia? _

Shit, that was right. 

“I’m bored,” the guy said. “And you speak Russian.”

“Shouldn’t you be… you know… behind the counter?”

The guy shrugged. “I’ll get back there if someone comes in, but it’s two in the morning on a Wednesday.”

Otabek shrugged. “I’m doing work.”

“You could do work at home.”

As if that were a reason to be harassed by an employee. Even if said employee was, admittedly, the hottest guy Otabek had ever fucking laid eyes on. “It’s quieter here than at home,” Otabek said.

“What do you do, anyway?” The guy asked.

“I’m a DJ.”

“Oh, no shit,” the guy said. “That’s really fucking cool!”

Otabek raised an eyebrow at that. There were thousands of DJs in Berlin, and it wasn’t as if Otabek played anywhere remarkable. He'd never been able to  _get into_ somewhere like the Berghain, let alone play there. “And you…?”

“I’m a retired Olympic figure skater.”

Okay, there was no fucking way that was true. Sure, the guy had the right body type for it, but he was also maybe twenty-three at most, if Otabek were being generous. Otabek narrowed his eyes. “Are you.”

“I can fucking prove it!” He dug his phone out of his pocket and tapped at it for a few seconds before turning the screen toward Otabek. Sure enough, there was a video of a figure skater who looked an awful lot like the man in front of him. The video title read “Yuri Plisetsky Free Skate Pyeongchang 2018”. Well, fuck.

The guy - Yuri - smirked and stretched out his hand for Otabek to shake. “Yuri Plisetsky.”

“Otabek Altin,” Otabek said, shaking hands. “What brings you to Berlin, though?” He did not, however, ask why Yuri had retired when he was clearly still so young.

Yuri shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

“But you’re Russian.”

“Excellent observation. You should be a detective with those skills.”

Otabek rolled his eyes. “Why  _ Berlin _ ? Why not Moscow or Piter?”

“First of all, I’m  _ from  _ Moscow. and second, Piter is a garbage city full of people who desperately want to be European.”

“And  _ you're _ not European.”

“I’m Russian. And Jewish, not like that makes much of a difference in terms of how European I’m  _ not _ .”

Wasn’t the main character in that mafia show Jewish? But that was, really, neither here nor there. It didn’t mean anything about Yuri.

“Look,” Yuri said, “I’m not gonna beat around the bush.”

Otabek felt a rush of anxiety. He knew he shouldn’t have kept coming back to a café that was so obviously a front for the Russian mafia. But Yuri was so hot and the pirozhki were so good. “Yes?” Otabek asked.

“You’re hot. I’m hot. And I’m off tomorrow night.”

“That’s not being very direct,” Otabek said, half-teasing.

Yuri Plisetsky leaned across the small table until he was nose to nose with Otabek. “Is ‘I want you to fuck me absolutely fucking senseless’ direct enough for you?”

Otabek forced himself not to back away. He could feel Yuri’s breath on his face. “At least buy me a drink first,” he said, trying his best to keep his facial expression impassive. 

Yuri stood up, walked over to the refrigerator by the counter, pulled out a bottle and set it down across from Otabek as he settled back down in his seat.

Otabek eyed the bottle. Kvass. “I meant alcoholic - and won’t you get in trouble for this?”

Yuri shrugged. “It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it.” He checked his watch. “I get off at four if you  _ really _ wanna go out for a drink.”

He was coming on strong, and usually that would turn Otabek off, but holy fucking shit was he hot. And interested. And, Otabek had to admit, he was curious to see how flexible Yuri still was. “I don’t have sex until the third date,” Otabek said.

“Old fashioned.”

“Not really,” Otabek said. “I’m just not into random hookups or meaningless sex.”

“It wouldn’t be meaningless,” Yuri said. “But… if we do three consecutive dates in one day…”

Otabek shrugged. If he were honest, he’d let Yuri do whatever the hell he wanted to him, any time. He’d let Yuri bend him over the fucking table they were at right now, to hell with the fact that the walls were glass. But he was trying to force himself to be sensible about it all.

“We’ll see,” Otabek said.

Yuri shoved his phone in Otabek’s face. “Give me your number.”

So he did. And he texted himself from Yuri’s phone so he had  _ his _ number. Because, fuck it, he didn’t even care if Yuri  _ were _ in the mafia. He was really fucking hot. Maybe that was stupid, but… Yuri was  _ really fucking hot _ .

“Tomorrow,” Otabek said. 

Yuri grinned and somehow that made him even more attractive. It took all of Otabek’s self control not to launch himself across the table. “I’m off all day.”

“So am I.”

“Then hopefully I’ll get to spend tomorrow night fucking you senseless.”

_ That _ made Otabek blush against his will, and he knew his eyes widened at that, but he hurried to school his expression. “I told you. Third date.””

“We’ll see about that,” Yuri said. “I like a challenge.”

And with that, Yuri leaned across the table and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> is Yuri actually in the mafia? ~~no, but his father is, which is quite a shock for Otabek when they get married~~


End file.
